


With Enemies Like These

by Elizabeth Tudor (Liz_Tudor)



Category: Lupin III
Genre: Angst, Coffee Helps, Comfort, Crisis of Faith, Friendship, Gen, Lupin does get sorta jealous though, Pops is having a bad night, SO MUCH DAMN ANGST, Serial Killer, Suicidal Ideation, When in Russia, drinking heavily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 09:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17702144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liz_Tudor/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Tudor
Summary: After a particularly rough case hits a little too close to home, Zenigata is left wondering whether he's really on the side of justice. Luckily, his thieves are never too far away, and he gets some much-needed perspective from an...unexpected source.





	With Enemies Like These

"Only enemies speak the truth; friends and lovers lie endlessly, caught in the web of duty."

~Stephen King

 

***************************************************************************************************

 

Mission accomplished, perp in custody, case closed, but you'd never know it from the huddle of hunched shoulders and empty eyes of the officers working the case, as the commissioner gave his statement to the press. ICPO and local police alike looked dead on their feet, skin ashy with stress and exhaustion. The rumpled clothes and unshaven cheeks were clear evidence of sleepless nights, but it was the abject hopelessness stamped on every face that made the little group resemble shipwrecked refugees, clinging to a sinking piece of driftwood with no land in sight. They'd technically won, but much too late, and with far too much collateral damage, and now they'd have to see every misstep and failure hashed over in the press. Even if by some miracle the articles and reports were neutral, or even favorable, they'd still have to see the death toll and their own lapses spelled out in every paper across Europe. It was a victory as hollow as they felt.

 

The commissioner finished his statement, and beat a hasty retreat under the barrage of questions and cannon fire of camera bulbs going off, promising to release more details as they became available.

 

"Well," he sighed, drawing up on the cluster of officers, "that should hold the vultures at bay for now, but we'll have to give them more tomorrow, a full statement about the arrest."

 

There was a long, dejected pause. No one relished the thought of dragging over all the painful details of this case, or the questions that were sure to follow.

 

"It goes without saying," the commissioner added apologetically, "but go straight home tonight. Don't talk to the press, don't even tell your families about the case until the press conference tomorrow."

 

"If we're done then, I'm gonna go tell it to a bottle of vodka," Zenigata said, his voice flat and hollow. Several of the other cops nodded, miserable, and the little clump of officers dispersed like debris in the wind, staggering off to nurse their gloom in solitude before they had to face the glaring lights of the cameras in the morning.

 

************************

 

 _One of the good things about Russia, cheap, strong vodka was never hard to come by,_  Zenigata thought a few hours later. He was two glasses into the industrial size, industrial strength jug of booze he'd picked up, and about ready to pour a third, he decided, tossing the last few sips back and shuddering. The alcohol was burning through his veins and beginning to make his vision swim, but unfortunately, the reason he was drinking in the first place was still painfully clear.

 

A sharp knock came at the door. "I'm not home," Zenigata grumbled, pouring another few fingers of liquor. The knocker seemed unconvinced though, and the inspector gritted his teeth, the sharp  _rat-a-tat_  eating into what was left of his sanity.

 

After several minutes of auditory torture, the knocking finally stopped, and Zenigata allowed himself to exhale. Maybe now he could get back to drinking himself unconscious in peace.

 

The sharp  _crack_  of the door breaking open put an end to that hopeful fantasy.

 

"What the hell..." he snarled, turning around, and then froze, his alcohol-addled brain struggling to make sense of what he was seeing.

 

"Well, I did knock first," Jigen shrugged, strolling in. He was carrying a large bottle of fairly decent scotch, Zenigata noted.

 

"What the fuck are you doing here? Where's Lupin?" he demanded.

 

"Still at home, far as I know," Jigen hedged. "He was elbow-deep in some new gadget when I left, don't think he even heard me say I was goin' out. He'll see the newsfeed in the morning, but I figured both of us at once might be too much right now."

 

"It's too much  _ever_ ," Zenigata snarled. "Get out." The gunman ignored him.

 

"How'd you get dragged into this one anyhow?" Jigen wanted to know, giving himself a quick tour of the room. The ICPO had put him up a boarding house this time instead of a hotel, and the room was surprisingly nice, with a small kitchenette and a sagging but comfortable couch in front of the old TV set. "Didn't seem like your usual kinda case. Aren't you usually too busy chasing us?"

 

Zenigata debated pushing him bodily out of the room, but decided it wasn't worth it. Not when the lock was already broken and he wouldn't be able to barricade him out. "Some of the murders were over the border," he finally grumbled. "They needed a couple of ICPO officers to help coordinate the hunt, since it was international, and I was around already, following you lot. Turned out it was the town his wife was from," he added morosely, draining the glass and grabbing the bottle to refill it. If he had to put up with any of Lupin's crew, he was going to need a _lot_ more alcohol. "The murders matched to when they were visiting."

 

Jigen frowned as he pulled the vodka out of the cop's hands and the raw ethanol fumes punched him in the face.

 

"Where'd you learn how to drink?" the thief chided. "You start with the good stuff, don't drink anything  _this_  terrible until you're already too shitfaced to care."

 

"Wasn't exactly looking for a fine cocktail," the cop sighed, running a hand along his jaw. He'd still have to shave and clean up before facing the press tomorrow, fuck. "Was mostly trying to stop being conscious for a while."

 

"I fully realize this is pot calling the kettle, but easier ways of doing that than pickling yourself in shitty alcohol," Jigen shrugged, uncapping the bottle he'd brought and pouring himself a glass of scotch. "At least make it stuff worth drinking."

 

"Not workin' anyway," Zenigata groaned, accepting the second glass of scotch Jigen handed him, and shuffling over so that the thief could sit down.

 

"Why're you so down about this?" Jigen wondered, flopping himself onto the battered sofa. "You caught the serial killer, streets are safe, now you can go back to chasin' us, an' I promise we won't rack up anywhere  _near_  as many bodies as whoever-it-is."

 

"Mikhail Gregochov," the cop sighed, staring bleakly into his scotch before downing it.

 

"Am I supposed to know that name?"

 

"No," he groaned, "but I should've." He debated dropping it there, but Jigen would keep asking, and it wasn't like the rest of the world wouldn't find out at the press conference tomorrow. "He was a cop," Zenigata added quietly. "He was a cop, and he killed seventy-three fucking people before we stopped him. It'll be announced tomorrow."

 

" _Shit,_ " Jigen drawled, staring at him, stunned. "That explains the long faces when they announced someone'd been arrested. Did you know 'im?"

 

"By sight," Zenigata shrugged, pouring himself some more scotch. "He was around whenever I was in that office. I should've fucking known," he added, glaring at nothing in particular. "Should've figured it out sooner."

 

"C'mon, Pops, cut yourself some slack," Jigen urged. "Who the hell figures one of their coworkers is a fuckin' serial killer? Under normal circumstances, I mean," he added. On reflection, he probably wasn't the best person to ask about normal.

 

"I still should've been able to tell," the cop grumbled. "The scumbag had the audacity to tell us he was doing it for the good of the city," he growled. "And he _believed_ it. Picking off what he thought were _undesirables_. Drive around in his squadcar off-duty, pick out drunk women or punk kids who looked lost, offer 'em a ride, and you're supposed to be able to fucking trust the police, at least to get you home safe, so most of 'em said yes and he'd keep 'em chatting as he headed out to the woods... GODDAMMIT!" he yelled suddenly, making Jigen jump.

 

"Pops, you oka-"

 

"Everyone at the office figured he was kind of weird, but harmless. A good cop," Zenigata said flatly. "A little gruff, but always polite, always filled his paperwork on time. Eccentric, but reliable."

 

There was more there, something he wasn't saying.

 

"Pops, what's eating you?"

 

Silence.

 

"Zenigata..."

 

"That's pretty much 'zactly what everyone at the office says about me," the inspector admitted finally. Lubricated by a full bottle of alcohol, the desperate, gnawing fear that had settled into his gut during that horror movie of an interrogation finally slipped out of him.

 

"You're not him though," Jigen said firmly, refilling both of their glasses. "Far as I know, you just use axes and screwdrivers for their 'ntended uses."

 

The inspector didn't reply, just kept staring into his scotch as though he was debating drowning himself in it.

 

Jigen let the silence grow for long minutes before sighing. "You're kinda scaring me here, Pops. You _do_ just use screwdrivers to hang pictures an' get paint cans open, right?"

 

"I have to...to ask you something," Zenigata said finally. Though the words themselves were innocuous enough, he seemed to have trouble forcing them out, and the gunman knew him well enough to hazard a guess at what that might mean.

 

"Okay, we're at  _that_  point of the night," Jigen sighed, staring into his scotch like he might find help at the bottom of the glass. "I figured somethin' like this was comin,' but I'm not near drunk enough for this yet. Mind waitin' an hour?"

 

"If we don't talk about this now, I don't think we're gonna," Zenigata insisted. "And yeah, I do need to talk 'bout this."

 

"Fine," Jigen groaned, finishing his glass in one gulp and bracing. "Shoot."

 

"Gregochov was willing to break the rules because he thought he knew better, could do better," the inspector told him, voice surprisingly steady for just how much he'd had to drink. "I'm willing to ignore the law once in a while, if I think it's in the way of justice."

 

"You're not him," Jigen insisted again, more adamantly this time. "Jesus Christ, Pops..."

 

"When the laws are in the way of what you know is right, it's easy to ignore them," the officer continued as though he hadn't heard him. "But they exist for a reason, to keep...shit like this...from happening, and it's too damn easy to forget that, t'think you're the only judge of what's right. If I ever turn into him," Zenigata rumbled, staring at his glass, "I need you to stop me, for good."

 

There was a long, broken glass silence.

 

"You can't fucking ask me to do that." Jigen's voice was absolutely flat, devoid of any inflection.

 

"If I ever turn into him," Zenigata repeated, "if I ever...go too far, if I start hurting the people I'm supposed to be protecting because I think I know better...I need you to stop me."

 

"You sure you want to be asking a criminal that?" He was desperate to derail the conversation, to get away from the idea of one more goddamn person using him as a suicide mechanism, expecting him to shoot someone he knew and cared about and walk away from it fine. He would _not_ do that again.

 

"Who else?" Zenigata shrugged, far, far too casually for the conversation they were having. "My coworkers all think I'm a little nuts anyway. They wouldn't notice a little _more_ nuts, an' even if they did, they couldn't stop me. Nah, if anyone notices I've gone twisted, it'll be you lot. So if it does happen..."

 

"It fucking won't," the gunman snapped, pulling the bottle away when he reached for it. "So stop talking about it!"

 

"Doesn't matter," the officer decided abruptly, setting his cup down, then reflexively picking it up again, fingers squeaking against the damp glass. "You will anyway, if it comes to that. Whether you agree to it now or not, if there's a chance I might actually kill one of your friends - you'll stop me."

 

"Jesus, you're as bad as Goemon when he starts gettin' suicidal," Jigen groaned. "It'll never come to that, Pops."

 

"I don't know that," Zenigata told him.

 

"I do, though. Isn't that in the Art of War or somethin', trust your enemies' opinions of you, because they'll have a more realistic view of you than your friends...? Think I remember that bein' a thing. Anyway. I know damn well that'll never be you, Pops. If you can't trust your opinion of yourself, you oughta be able to trust mine, at least. And Lupin's and Goemon's an' yeah, even Fujiko's."

 

"I  _do_  trust your opinion," Zenigata insisted. "That's why I'm asking. That's why I'm asking  _you_. Lupin won't," he added quietly. "He'd never believe it, and even if I did sna...even if I did...I...I doubt I'd be able to get close enough. To hurt him. To actually be a danger to him. An' if I'm not to him, he won't think I am to anyone else either. He wouldn't see it clearly 'nuff, it'd still be a game to him. Fujiko, or Goemon... They might. I don't know. Goemon's sense of honor might keep 'im from...doing what needs to be done. Fujiko would prob'ly rather just leave, than deal with it...more permanently. That's why I'm asking you," he repeated, rolling the empty glass around in his hands. "You used to be a hit man. Your life would be a lot easier if I was out of it, but even so, you've never once tried to kill me. You won't, unless I really am a threat to you and the others, and then you'll shoot me to protect them."

 

"You're right about that," Jigen conceded, "but that doesn't change the fact that you'll never be that much of a nutjob, Zenigata."

 

"I can't know that. Just in case you're wrong."

 

"Lissen," Jigen growled, "you don't kill seventy-some..."

 

"Seventy-three," Zenigata put in.

 

"...fine,  _seventy-three_  people 'cause you think it'll make the damn world a happier, fluffier place. I could see a vigilante killin' one, maybe two real specific targets, drug lords or dictators or somethin', but that many? Grabbin' people off the street? That's not killing for a cause," Jigen deadpanned, "that's just 'cause you  _like_  it, and you're trying to find a way to justify gettin' your sick thrills. And that's not you, Pops. Never has been."

 

"That could change," Zenigata muttered. He never deliberately tried to hurt anyone, especially not bystanders, but sometimes people got caught in the crossfire when he wasn't paying enough attention, became collateral damage, and he felt bad about it afterwards, but it still happened. Was it really so much of a stretch to imagine that if the stakes were high enough, he'd stop caring? Become inured to the cost of human life? Maybe even start to enjoy it.

 

 Jigen was done arguing in circles, and coming up on too drunk to bother being polite. How to turn this conversation onto a different track...

 

"Why d'you think I came here t'night?" he asked abruptly, grabbing the bottle of scotch and emptying the last of it into his glass. Zenigata blinked, his train of thought effectively derailed.

 

"Wha...because you saw the press conference."

 

"But why'd I come  _here_?"

 

"To see me," Zenigata growled. He had no idea where the gunman was going with this, and he was rapidly running out of patience for guessing games. Usually that was Lupin's shtick, and he didn't like it even then.

 

"Why?"

 

"I don't fucking know!" he snapped. "You tell me!"

 

"'Cause you looked like hell and I was right down the road," Jigen said simply, taking a sip of the scotch. "That look said you'd be doin' a lot of drinking, an' drinking alone usually jus' makes it worse." After a long moment, he went on. "So what are we?"

 

"What the fucking hell d'you mean by that?" Zenigata snarled. If Jigen was coming on to him...

 

"C'mon, Pops, this is an easy one," Jigen smirked. "What's your job title?"

 

"Inspector."

 

"Yup. Cop. And what'm I?"

 

"Annoying."

 

"Besides that."

 

"Thief," the officer snapped, draining his glass. "Hit man."

 

"Ex."

 

"Beside the point. Gunman. Assassin. Criminal."

 

"Exactly," Jigen shrugged, passing him the bottle of vodka. "We met when you were arresting me. We're 'bout as clean a case of natural enemies as you can get. But I'm here 'cause I was worried about you. That's not somethin' I'm interested in doing for most cops. 'Cause you're dead right, you're _not_ like most cops, but I...I think...in the opposite direction of what you're worried 'bout," he finished, fumbling for words.

 

"What do you mean?" Zenigata asked quietly. Although the desperate fear was still there, an icy liquid burning through his chest and pushing all the air out of his lungs, Jigen's words were sinking in too, making it a little easier to breathe.

 

"What I mean is...fuck, I don't know," the gunman muttered, scrubbing a hand across his face. "Most cops...I've lost track of the times I've had the shit beaten outta me even after I handed my gun over and I was cuffed. But that's...not you. If one of us is hurt or somethin', you make sure we get help  _before_  the interrogation, not three days later when it's convenient. Hell, you spent a week keepin' Goemon company when he was suicidal, trying to get him to eat."

 

"Of course," the inspector told him, puzzled.

 

"That's what I mean though," Jigen groaned, pouring himself some of the vodka. "That's not a given, not 'round anyone who isn't you. Bein' arrested by you...it's safer, than bein' around most cops. Maybe you're not following the letter of the law, but if a bunch of thieves trust you, even after you keep arresting 'em...fuck, you can't be too bad a guy. So yeah," he finished, staring at his hands swirling the glass of clear liquid. "If you ever do go completely off the deep end, I promise I'll stop you - but only 'cause I know _damn well_ I'll never, ever need to."

 

"Thanks," Zenigata told him after a moment's thought. "On both counts."

 

"Don't mention it," Jigen shrugged, glancing out the window, then added, "Seriously, don't mention it. Ever. Lupin will be pissier than a cat whose tail got shut in the door if he finds out I came here without 'im, an' I don't wanna have to listen to him bitching about it from now till Thursday."

 

Zenigata actually laughed at that, the first time he'd smiled all night.

 

The conversation drifted and slowed after that. With the bleakest of Zenigata's worries assuaged, he felt the alcohol finally hitting him, wrapping his brain in a soft blanket that dulled the worst of the day's horrors. He vaguely remembered telling Jigen not to smoke in here, and the gunman scowling and moving to open the window into the brisk spring night, and then the next he knew, someone was shaking his shoulder, and a familiar, nasally voice was imploring, "Pops...c'mon Pops, you're gonna be late if you don't get moving."

 

"Wha....?" he slurred, forcing his eyelids up to half-mast, and then immediately slammed them shut again at the sight of a familiar sideburned face less than an inch away from his.

 

"Lupin!" he groaned, throwing an arm across his eyes. The room was much, much too bright, the gentle drifting of the curtains an unbearable assault on his scorched retinas. "What the hell are you doing here?!"

 

"I brought breakfast!" that familiar, grating voice chirped. "There's a bakery nearby that does really good piroshkies. D'you want the salmon and chive, the marzipan, cherry, or beef and onion?"

 

"What time is it?" the inspector gritted out, dragging himself upright.

 

"Eight," Lupin told him happily, settling beside him on the couch, where he'd apparently fallen asleep. "I'm taking the marzipan one then. Here, try the salmon. It's good."

 

 _An hour_ , Koichi thought, reflexively taking the piroshky and the cup of coffee that the thief passed him. That was doable, he could get cleaned up and to the station in an hour, as long as he didn't linger too long. Loathe as he was to admit it, it was a good thing Lupin had woken him; he'd been too far gone last night to set an alarm.

 

"Thanks for the coffee," he conceded, taking another sip to wash the moldering, cottony taste of bad decisions out of his mouth.

 

"Jigen's idea," Lupin told him cheerfully, finishing his pastry and licking his fingers. "Sorta, anyway. He figured if you looked that rough at the press conference, you'd be up late drinking, and you'd probably need a pick-me-up in the morning. I was planning on bringing coffee anyway, but I was kinda surprised, he doesn't usually think of stuff like tha... _wait_." The thief's voice trailed off as he stared hard at the blue ash tray on the little coffee table in front of them. "He knew you'd be up late drinking. The lock on the door was sorta splintered when I came in, like it had been damaged and repaired in a hurry. Those are _Pall Malls_ in the ash tray...that rat-bastard!" Lupin growled. "He came here without me!?"

 

"He said you were busy working on something, and he didn't want to bother you," Zenigata supplied, hoping Lupin would accept the lie for the sake of peace. It was not to be.

 

"Bull! He knows damn well I'd want to come!" Lupin pouted, eyebrows drawing together into an angry V. "There's no project that would take precedence over that!"

 

"Not much happened," Zenigata offered, still hoping to placate him. If nothing else, the shouting was making his head begin to pound. "Like he figured, I was drinking. He thought I shouldn't be drinking alone. Didn't talk much, but it was a...pretty bad case that just finished, and the company helped. Any company. That's all."

 

"It was that bad?" Lupin asked, his forehead knitting with worry. "You didn't get hurt or anything, did you?"

 

"I'm fine," the inspector reassured him, batting his hands away when Lupin immediately tried to check him over. "This one...just hit a little close to home, that's all."

 

"This is why I don't like you working on cases other than me," Lupin lectured, handing him another piroshky and a glass of water. "It stresses you out too much! Then you're too tired to chase after me, and that's not fair at all!"

 

"Trust me, I'm never too tired to chase you," Zenigata chuckled, chugging the glass of water. "Well...rarely," he admitted, wincing as he put a hand to his pounding head. Lupin pursed his lips in a moue of disapproval, but handed him a couple of tylenol anyway.

 

"You're still going to be there Thursday though?" he pestered after the officer had downed the pills. "When I steal the royal portrait?"

 

"Wouldn't miss it," Zenigata assured him. "When they asked me to take this case, I told them that they only had me till Tuesday at the latest, and then I had to go and deal with you. There's a cell with your name on it, ready and waiting."

 

"I bet that portrait is gonna look great hanging in my dining room," Lupin laughed, and dodged out of the way as Zenigata swiped at him.

 

"Maybe I should stick you in that cell right now, save myself the trouble later!"

 

"See you on Thursday, Pops!" Lupin called over his shoulder, dancing back out the door. Zenigata threw a pair of cuffs after him, knowing they'd go wide, and Lupin stuck his tongue out before vanishing down the hall, deranged giggling fading after him.

 

All right. Time to get cleaned up, and go face the music. Even if it wasn't his city or his department, he owed it to the other officers to be at the press conference, to finish this horror story together, as they'd begun it. As he washed his face and tried to yank his tie back into alignment though, Zenigata felt some of the depression of the previous night lift away. They'd caught Gregochov. Too little, too late, but he was in custody and he'd confessed and he wouldn't be killing anyone else. More than that though...the warped, twisted funhouse reflection of himself he'd seen across the interrogation table had retreated with the rest of the night's shadows. As he checked himself in the bathroom mirror, familiar square features staring back at him, he felt a little more at ease with his own reflection. He'd yet to find a better mirror than someone who knew you well.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Written in a hurry and still a little rough, I may clean this up later. I cannot now recall which episode/special it was that Zenigata is trying to coax a suicidal Goemon to eat. If anyone knows, please do tell, it's driving me crazy!
> 
> Based heavily on a real serial killer, unfortunately. Mikhail Popkov. Based also on a conversation with one of my dearest friends, who is a cop. The real conversation was nowhere near this grim, but she was still pretty upset. When you took the job because you wanted to be able to protect people who need it, and you find out someone else is exploiting that to torture and kill people...it's enough to give you a crisis of faith. Luckily there are good ones too though, cops like Zenigata and Cate, who really will fight not just for what's lawful, but what's just.


End file.
